


Prime Directive

by 20Zvorak17



Series: Fem Sam Wincest [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Incest, female!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 22:13:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20Zvorak17/pseuds/20Zvorak17
Summary: He doesn't think John's command to Watch Out for Sammy quite entailed all this, but in the end he still fails.A preface to a story soon to be posted called Backwards in High Heels





	Prime Directive

The prime directive of Dean’s life is still, unceasingly, Watch Out For Sammy.

 

When Sam is thirteen and Dean is seventeen, John decides they’re old enough for separate beds; Sam can take care of herself well enough that Dean doesn’t have to be a foot away from her.

 _We don’t mind,_ Dean promises.

 _Saves on expenses,_ Sam points out.

John, oblivious as ever, simply agrees. That’s probably the first Winchester Mistake. His deliberate ignorance to the easy sharing of a bed that maybe siblings shouldn’t have. But they sleep better this way, both of them, and it’s true that Dean usually finds himself wrapped around her when they wake, it’s true that she scoots up against him in her sleep, but Dean won’t think about what that means—Sammy’s not old enough to recognize what that means and at least until then…

No. At least _never._ He’s not going to be that person, _that_ older brother, the kind they make Lifetime Movies about. Even if she’s the one who insists on the cuddling. God, of course he knows how wrong his feelings, her feelings are. He doesn’t enjoy the lightness in his chest, he _won’t_ , because they’re siblings—siblings!—and _wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong_ is all that he can think, if he thinks about it at all.

So, Bobby is the one to recognize that they spend _too much_ time together; they’re _too_ huggy, too comfortable together—the one to recognize what it is, what they _are_ —and the judgement comes down: _While you’re here, you’ll have your own beds._ And he pretends it’s because he knows they don’t usually _get_ to sleep separately; that it is a cheer tactic because John will be gone for who-knows-how-long this time. Both kids see it for what it is, though.

An intervention.

It’s not enough.

 

A few months later—they’re fourteen and eighteen now—they’re squatting at a house in Alabama, the sweltering summer heat pervading the entire place. John’s on a hunt so Sam and Dean are left to suffer and he’s walking around shirtless because it’s so ungodly hot and he knows Sam’s eyes are on him but a hundred degrees, fuck’s sake. But it is difficult being around Sam. These days, all legs and curves, she’s taken to wearing a sports bra and the tiniest shorts that she owns. Her hair she wears braided and then in a bun, up off her neck. It allows him to see the elegant curve of it; her delicate shoulders, flat belly, mile long legs. He still knows how wrong this is, to look at her like that—not to call her on the way she looks at him. It’s just…objectively, he knows this, but it doesn’t…doesn’t feel wrong and he barely remembers a time when Sam wasn’t his entire world; he knows that she doesn’t remember such a time at all.

She still crawls into bed with him, the house so hot they both sleep naked anyway, but they don’t cuddle. Occasionally, in the mornings, rather than get up they lace their fingers together, laying together, sometimes in a comfortable silence; others, lazy nothing topics. They still haven’t done anything sexual, anything they can’t recover from—anything one or both of them can’t just put a stop to. And while they’d miss it like a physical ache, it’s not the same as feeling the universe shift, the way they both know they would. She starts to wear make-up because maybe a boy—a _different_ boy—can put a stop to her feelings, to this, so she swipes some cherry lip gloss from the five-and-dime.

Six months later, Dean has the honor of being the first to taste it.

 

 

 _I’m frustrated,_ she admits, when he asks her why she’s been so quiet. _I know how to kill a witch and a werewolf, the exorcism rites—but I don’t even know how to kiss a boy._

And he’s not supposed to see his sister as a pretty girl, but he does, so the flirt rolls out, easy as breathing. Falls off his tongue too readily, like there could never be consequences for it.  _I could teach you,_ and within seconds he regrets it, just a little, because this is the first line; the easiest to cross, but the beginning of a slippery slope. His regret, he notes and files as important, isn’t rooted in the fact that she might take him up on it. Besides which, the offers out, and he can’t bring himself to retract it. He should, he knows, before it’s too late, and he opens his mouth to do it when…

 _Would you?_ He can’t say no—can never say no to his Sammy. So he turns to face her, grabs her hands and wraps them around his neck. One of his own hands find her hip and he can’t help it, he’s nervous. His other hand grips her chin softly, tilting her head just a bit as he leans forward; at first just a press of lips before he licks the seam of hers, seeking permission that she freely gives. The lifted hand slides around to the base of her skull, holding her in place like he’s afraid she’ll disappear—he _is._ Because she’s going to realize that this—it’s not alright. That they can’t eye each other like they do, can’t kiss each other, can’t imagine what it might be like to touch. And he thinks that, but the hand at her hip slides up under her shirt, still only resting at her side. In this moment his epiphany strikes him. Her skin is sacrosanct; she is sacred; _her body is his church_. His touch is reverent, full of awe, and she can do nothing but revel in it.

 _You’re a natural,_ he tells her, grinning, before bowing down to kiss her again. This is the second Winchester mistake.

 

 

For four months, there are no overt displays of affection like The Teaching Incident. Hands and gazes that linger, this new tendency of hers to wear his clothes—to sleep in his shirts, his hand on her bare hip or stomach when they share a bed. But they don’t kiss; don’t cross lines as they had that day in the field, sitting on the Impala.

They’re more protective of each other and he’s less likely to spend his time with other girls, by which he means he doesn’t. She made her opinion on that very clear the last time, having refused to share a bed with him for an entire week after. Because, she told him, she knew exactly where those hands had been. He’d rather have this simple touch than that busty blonde, no contest.

For four months they are good, able to pass off cuddling on the couch as really close siblingship. For four months, they don’t do anything they cannot undo. Then one night, they just…they need to feel alive. A teenager had been possessed and the exorcism had killed her; body crumpling the moment the black smoke had erupted. The knife the demon had mind thrown missed Dean by inches, and it had admitted that it originally intended to possess her. Neither of them feel okay, both of them need to know that the other is real.

This is when the trouble starts.

Sam, clad only in Dean’s shirt and he in his boxers, rolls over to face him. A hand slides up his arm, shoulder, around to the back of his neck, pulls him to her and he’ll let himself have this. He’s trying to think that, even if he’s accepted that he’s in love with his sister, he’s still nearly four years her senior. He’s twenty and she’s not even legal. That they have to stop. It all flies out of his head when she takes the shirt off; her soft breasts pressed against his chest.

 _We can’t undo this,_ his eyes are soft, _Sam, if we do this…_

 _I know,_ she answers. After that he’s lost in sensation; he has the presence of mind to grab a condom but only just, whispering to her, _Perfect, beautiful, Sam._ Slides into her, slowly, because she’s never…he feels kind of guilty about that, about taking her virginity, even as her voice in his head promises him he’s taking nothing _from her_ —that this is hers to _give_. And that is exactly what she’d tell him, what she’d yell, growing angry with his guilt, so he shoves it all down and tells her again how damn perfect she is.

 

 

She tells him she’s going to Stanford and he’s not angry he’s hurt. He loves her, that’s the thing, in all the ways he should but all the ways he shouldn’t, too, and he was so, so sure she’d loved him in turn. They fight about it and she has the words to shut him up. _I thought I was pregnant! Would you have liked to explain that to Dad?_ And the answer is no, of course it is. He doesn’t think he could bear the disappointment from his father and he’d rather not find himself at the business end of a shotgun. John won’t miss, he knows. She doesn’t wait for the response she knows isn’t coming, but as she walks away, her gait just a little too sure, he tells her he’ll drive her to the station. _No,_ she declines with her eyes closed, _I need to be away. I need to figure out how to be anything but in love with you._

She needs to not love him? Fine. She can hate him instead then. And he knows that he is the only thing that has ever been able to hurt her. (It's the worst Winchester mistake to date.)

“You always needed me more than I needed you anyway.”

He has never lied to her and so she straightens her shoulders and takes these words for gospel.

 

 

The prime directive of his life is supposed to be Watch Out For Sammy.

Well.

 


End file.
